a woman's voice

Nora Ephron died today. I cried.

Not because I knew her or even followed her life on a daily basis - I listened while news reporters told of her extraordinary Hollywood life, one of films and acquaintances that would make the common person wish for her life - but because I felt like I lost a friend, someone who understood those heartfelt moments and could actually put them into words. Something I have attempted to do every day of my life.

She left us with gems. I remember "When Harry Met Sally", "You've Got Mail", "Sleepless in Seattle" and "Julie & Julia". I have sat on my sofa, square in front of my TV for hours on end. I always cried when Meg Ryan achingly placed ornaments on her Christmas tree, missing her mother so much that it hurt; then, in true TBS fashion, I would watch them all over again as they were re-played back-to-back. "It's you," Tom Hanks said. "It's me," Meg Ryan replied. And I gushed, and said, "Yes, it's me. Oh, how I wish it were me." Ephron had that gift of knowing the exact words I would say when I met the man of my dreams at the top of the Empire State Building. She knew words, and she used them over and over.

It was like there was a connection. She had a woman's voice, a true voice, one that would kick butt and take names, and then ask you if you needed help getting up off the floor. Never minced words. Nailed emotions when they accompanied a buttered tub of popcorn or a heaping bowl of ice cream and even had the genius to have the heroine peel an apple in one motion. Ah, how me!  I felt it in my living room, and then I heard it on the screen. Amazing gift, that screenwriter/writer/novelist/woman.

You will be missed. Who will write those romantic comedies now? Who will make me laugh and cry at the same time? Who will spill my innards on the big screen?

Ms Ephron, I wish for you a spectacular view of Manhattan from your heavenly perch and while you're gazing, a piece of pecan pie to whet your memory.